4:23 AM. At least, that’s what the clock said, or that’s what her blurry eyes full of dry, cracked sleep that she refused to push away told her. Too early, she wanted to think, far too early. Time to go back to sleep.
Niamh closed her eyes again gratefully, trying to ignore the sleep uncomfortably settling back in the craters that were her bags of sleep. Black, black eyes, she thought to herself. Scoops of bags, doubling each night. She didn’t want that. No-one wanted that. Yet the pain in her lungs was unbearable, troubling her with each breath.
In – pain. Out – a little bit less pain. In, out. In, out, in, out, in. Out. Each breath was laboured.
“Go away,” she muttered, and turning over, away from the brightness of her digital clock. The shift in her body sent a slither of pain running across her spine, but she was happy to report that the breathing was less painful now. Eventually, the hurt churned into a regular cycle, one that she could snatch an hour or two before school, at least.
6:00 AM. At least, that’s what the clock said, or that’s what the tedious beeping sound was. Thank God, she wanted to think: sleep was over. No more sitting in the same spot and wasting her hours on willing herself to sleep, sleep, God, please let me sleep. But she couldn’t be thankful; there was a whole day ahead of her yet.
Niamh hauled herself up, coughing and hacking in a desperate process to grab more oxygen. She shook herself and slapped her thighs to bring herself back to reality – no more coughing, please, she begged. She didn’t want to explain herself to another teacher, or be in the middle of a conversation and rendering herself unable to talk, again. Not again.
A knock at the door, slightly fragmented in her disorientated brain.
“Hello, sweetie,” her mum cooed. “How are you feeling? I bought up some breakfast for you.” She placed a tray on her dressing table, containing a plate full of strawberries, a croissant lathered with butter and jam, a bowlful of cereal (granola, her favourite), two slices of toast drowning in golden substance and fried egg and bacon. “Whatever takes your fancy.”
Even the smell, the delicious smell, drained through her nose and triggered her stomach to growl greedily, but her throat won again. “Mum,” she choked, gagging on the sickly smell of the unhealthy breakfast in front of her. “I’ve told you before, I can’t-”
“Baby, you can’t say no. Please eat something.” Denial. Please, Niamh begged, not this again.
“I eat two meals a day, Mum, isn’t that enough? Y’know…considering.” She didn’t want a fight, not this early in the morning, not with her lungs paining her with each breath, each word, each emotion.
“I’m just going to leave it here, and I want at least two plates eaten, no questions asked.” Anger. At least, that was as angry as she ever got, what with… well, this.
“Okay.” No point in fighting. She wouldn’t eat it anyway.
Her Mum left, but the smell didn’t. Niamh got ready, picking a carefully selected outfit that hid the fact that she was becoming skinny, painfully skinny. A slightly bagging t-shirt, and skinny jeans? No, not skinny. White jeans, her favourite, that were not clinging to her skin, but left some room to breathe. And didn’t show her as a pile of bones with skin draped carefully around the remainder of the muscles. Her necklace that Grace had picked out last year, before… And to finish off, some stud earrings.
Perfect.
Now make-up, but the food was on her dressing table…
“Niamh?” Her Mum came in without knocking this time. One glance at the uneaten food and a disappointed flash crept into her eyes, but only for a second. “If you eat it, I’ll… We’ll watch Pretty Little Liars tonight.” Bargaining. But what can you bargain with… her?
“I’m sorry, Mum. I’ll eat something at school.” She might do, it depends whether the rush of food sends her with a queasy stomach to the toilets again.
“You don’t have to go, Niamh.”
“I know. But there’s only fourteen more school days left until summer break. I can last that long.”
“But the cance-”
“Don’t. Please don’t.” Niamh didn’t want to be reminded that it was getting worse, that she was getting skinnier, her cheeks were hollower and her eyes a little emptier every growing day.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and picked up the tray. “Make sure you eat at school.”
“I will.”
Her Mum walked out, carrying the tray as a sign of defeat, and holding in a sniff and choking back a lump that had grown in her throat. Depression. Of course, Niamh thought, it’s hard for her. But it’s hard for me too.
She sat down at the dressing table, and picked up her tools of defence. A brush of foundation, an application of concealer around her dark circles (that had naturally grown since yesterday), some bright red lipstick that masked her cracking lips, a quick stroke of bronzer to hide the way her cheeks had become concave and a little mascara and eyeliner to make her eyes seem bright.
Picking up her bag, she walked out the door and down the stairs – not running like she used to, not because there was no rush, but because she couldn’t. Her lungs exploded when she ran. So she didn’t.
“Have a good day,” her Mum chirped, obviously brushing away the emotion earlier. “You’ll be great.”
Niamh nodded thankfully. Acceptance, finally. It was heartbreakingly brutal to go through this every morning with her Mum, but she’d grown accustomed to it. The five stages of loss and grief were already being overplayed, even though she wasn’t lost yet.
Yet.
The doctors said three months.
She forced a smile on her face and looked in the mirror on her way out.
Perfect.
Mutterings of a Teenage Mind 